"No, there is not. In one of your cases, I wouldn't eliminate the Pope or the Archbishop of Canterbury. Whoever you think it can't be, that's always the person it is. What were you going to say, though?"
"I was just thinkin' about Dr. Rich."
"To tell you the truth, sir, so was I."
"Here's a chap," argued H.M., "who's had a lot laid at his door he's not guilty of. That business with the alleged rusty pin, for instance. The poor feller must have gone nearly out of his mind Thursday night."
"Oh, ah," acknowledged Masters. "And no motive."
"And, so far as appears, no motive. What do you think, son?"
"I think," snapped Masters, taking up his hat, "that we've done enough talking. I think that the sooner we cut along there and see Mrs. Fane and the cook, the sooner we can argue as much as we like. Are you ready, Sir Henry? And you, sir? Then what are we waiting for?"
Ten minutes later, when H.M. had been persuaded to put on a coat, they were ringing the front door bell at the Fanes'.
The door was opened by an effulgent Daisy, whose snub nose and freckled face shone as though they had been polished. Masters greeted her with a smile that was confidential and bland.
"Good afternoon, miss."